This Being Human

Ode to Rumi


I’m beginning to miss my painting.
The broad strokes transforming the canvas.
Blending color,
Waiting patiently,
Relentlessness overriding freedom.
Curving straight lines and scraping below.
I’m beginning to miss my painting.
Yearning to be there in that other half.
Dirty loose jeans and stained fingernails.
Free and absolutely at peace with
Where I focus my energy.
Is that what it means to be human, this missing?
                         
The more I sharpen my focus
I encounter a new set of curious emotions.
I’m welcoming a new guest every day.
Blending color,
Waiting patiently,
                        Relentlessness overriding freedom.

Curving straight lines and scraping below.
Is it just now that I’ve missed that vast canvas—
Or has it been an eternity?
Must be like that old woman’s stare
Halfway in, halfway out.

Halfway human.
Today snow sits high on the windowsill
Blocking my full view.
Without opening the door or knowing anything at all
I am comforted.
I’m anticipating the first stroke, that delicious sigh.
That pacing around, fancy stillness of mind.
Let it go and hold on tight.
Isn’t that what being human feels like?

Blended colors,
Wait patiently,
                        Relentless overriding freedom.

Curved straight lines and scrapes below.
All the while unknowns keep me safe.
Keeps this and that at bay.
In the end, it’s all one big experiment.
Hold off long enough to know.
Feel the thick messiness of it.

The shadow dance of it.

The unexplainable beauty of it.

All coming outside of me.
Isn’t that what being human is?

Blending colors,
Waiting patiently,
                        The relentlessness overriding freedom?

Curved straight lines and scrapes below.

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